Funny How the Night Moves
by l-dhenson
Summary: The little hand says it's 10.34pm.


**Funny How the Night Moves**

Fandom: _Hot Fuzz_

Rating: PG

Spoilers: Lots.

Summary: The little hand says it's 10.34pm.

* * *

He stumbles into his room at the end of a long day: cleanup and paperwork and procedures; recovery of lost records, temporary headquarters, budget negotiations. It's been like this for a week now, although today in particular was one of those days that seemed to go on forever. It's wet, it's late, and he just wants to go to sleep.

But when he sinks down onto the ancient creaking mattress and closes his eyes, it's not reports and figures and scorched brick that unspool haphazardly before his vision; it's the way Danny's face dropped when Angel told him yesterday that he wouldn't be able to stop in for a visit today.

There's a crack of lightning, illuminating the spartanly-furnished room: only two living things in here, just himself and his peace lily. A heartbeat later there's a crash of thunder, the storm moving closer, and he sits up, jaw tightening.

* * *

When he arrives at the door to Danny's room precisely fifty-one minutes later, his arms are full and he and his cargo are still dripping fresh rainwater onto the clean floor tiles.

He's tapped on the door and gotten no answer, nor has he really expected one, not at this hour. He slips inside the darkened room, the hum of electronics in his ears, and makes his way soundlessly past the bed towards the familiar hard white plastic chair beside it.

'Freeze, pal.'

He starts, glances over; in the faint glow of the monitors Danny has one eye open, grinning.

'I gotcha, didn't I?' Danny says. His voice is tired, and Angel is hit by a flash of memory: Danny's breathing stopping twice during the wait for the ambulance, Danny's lips cold beneath his own. But that was a week ago, and Danny's gaze now is more alert than it's been.

'Yes, you did.' Angel coughs. 'Sorry I woke you.'

A shrug, a half-shrug, hampered by bandages and stitches and IV tubing. 'Wasn't sleeping.' He hitches himself a little higher on the pillow. 'How's things down at HQ?'

'We got a second phone in today.' Angel rubs his forehead. 'Doris still doesn't have a desk. There's getting to be too much loose change in the swear box.'

Danny smiles at him, supremely confident. 'You'll do it, I know you can,' he says, answering something Angel hasn't even said aloud. His gaze shifts to the object in Angel's arms. 'What's that?'

'I...I just brought you something. I can't stay long.'

Even in the darkness Danny's look of happy anticipation is unmistakable. 'Is it a box of Cornettos?'

'That's against the rules,' he says; then, less certainly: 'No. Er.' He reaches for the dimmer switch, dials it up to get just enough light to see by.

Danny squints at the pot as Angel nestles it carefully between the paws of the oversized plush monkey that has permanent residence on one of the bedside chairs, ensuring that the vessel has enough space and the contents won't tip. 'You went to buy a plant for me? Is that one of those peas lilies?'

'Peace lily,' Angel corrects automatically. 'And no, I didn't.'

But it's obvious the plant is here, and it's obvious the plant is staying. Danny's brow furrows in puzzlement, then his eyes go wide with delight. 'You _nicked_ it?'

'_No_, Danny.'

'You confiscated it?'

'No - '

'You commandeered - '

'No! It's nothing like that, all right?'

Danny sags a little, disappointed. 'Then how'd you get it?'

'I purchased it in a shop, of course.'

The puzzlement is back. 'But...you said you didn't buy it for me.'

'I didn't.'

'But...'

'I bought it for _me_.'

'Eh?' Danny says.

Angel looks away, stares instead at the window with its slatted blinds slightly open, back-lit silhouettes of raindrops sliding down the pane. It occurs to him that the view in this room, thirty-two kilometres away in the nearest major hospital in Bath, isn't so much different to the view in his own. 'Three years ago.'

Danny doesn't say anything, and Angel wonders how it can be that even when looking elsewhere, he can read Danny's silences: not confusion, this time, only a gradual dawning comprehension.

'It's not a gift,' Angel says finally, a little more gruffly than he meant.

'It's not?'

And now Angel _does_ have to look at him, because there was a very faint edge of hurt in Danny's voice and that's flat unacceptable, especially when it's only because _he_ can't get out the words that he needs to.

'It's a loan,' he clarifies quickly. He draws himself up, meets the astonished hazel eyes with a level gaze of his own. 'And I fully expect, Police Constable, that you will walk out of this hospital in good time and personally return it to me. Is that understood?'

For a long, long moment he gets no response, and he's abruptly aware of how ridiculous he must appear, standing here soaked to the skin in a convalescent man's room hours past visiting-time, all to offer the dubious solace of a potted bit of foliage.

And then Danny says, quite cheerfully: 'Okay. But can you bring Cornettos next time?'

* * *

He stumbles into his room at the end of the long drive: fifty-one minutes there and fifty-one minutes back, hard asphalt and harder rain all the way. It's wetter, it's later, and he just wants to go to sleep.

But when he sinks down onto the ancient creaking mattress and closes his eyes, it's not slick roads and headlights and streaked windshields that unspool haphazardly before his vision; it's the way Danny's face lit up when he reached out to touch the curve of the glossy dark leaves, the sweep of the single delicate white bloom.

There's a crack of lightning, illuminating the spartanly-furnished room: only one living thing in here, just himself.

Several beats later there's a crash of thunder, the storm moving away, and he lies back, smiling.


End file.
